Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  The door opened. Evidently Spencer guessed who was wanted this time, for he pushed Bowker into the room. The steward of the President Tyler was bedraggled and bleary.

  “Hello, Bowker,” said the prosecutor. “Sober now, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll tell the world I am,” replied Bowker. “They’ve walked me to San Francisco and back. Can—can I sit down?”

  “Of course,” Greene smiled. “This afternoon, while you were still drunk, you told a story to Willie Chan, out at Okamoto’s auto stand on Kalakaua Avenue. Later on, early this evening, you repeated it to Captain Hallet and me. I’ll have to ask you to go over it again.”

  Bowker glanced toward Jennison, then quickly looked away. “Always ready to oblige,” he answered.

  “You’re a steward on the President Tyler,” Greene continued. “On your last trip over here from the mainland Mr. Jennison occupied one of your rooms—number 97. He was alone in it, I believe?”

  “All alone. He paid extra for the privilege, I hear. Always traveled that way.”

  “Room 97 was on the main deck, not far from the accommodation ladder?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Tell us what happened after you anchored off Waikiki the night of June thirtieth.”

  Bowker adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses with the gesture of a man about to make an after-dinner speech. “Well, I was up pretty late that night. Mr. Winterslip here had loaned me some books—there was one I was particularly interested in. I wanted to finish it so I could give it to him to take ashore in the morning. It was nearly two o’clock when I finally got through it, and I was feeling stuffy, so I went on deck for a breath of air.”

  “You stopped not far from the accommodation ladder?”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Did you notice the quartermaster?”

  “Yes—he was sound asleep in a deck chair. I went over and leaned on the rail, the ladder was just beneath me. I’d been standing there a few minutes when suddenly somebody came up out of the water and put his hands on the lowest rung. I drew back quickly and stood in a shadow.

  “Well, pretty soon this man comes creeping up the ladder to the deck. He was barefooted, and all in black—black pants and shirt. I watched him. He went over and bent above the quartermaster, then started toward me down the deck. He was walking on tiptoe, but even then I didn’t get wise to the fact anything was wrong.

  “I stepped out of the shadow. ‘Fine night for a swim, Mr. Jennison,’ I said. And I saw at once that I’d made a social error. He gave one jump in my direction and his hands closed on my throat. I thought my time had come.”

  “He was wet, wasn’t he?” Greene asked.

  “Dripping. He left a trail of water on the deck.”

  “Did you notice a watch on his wrist?”

  “Yes, but you can bet I didn’t make any study of it. I had other things to think about just then. I managed to sort of ooze out of his grip, and I told him to cut it out or I’d yell. ‘Look here,’ he says, ‘you and I can talk business, I guess. Come into my cabin.’

  “But I wasn’t wanting any tête-à-tête with him in any cabin, I said I’d see him in the morning, and after I’d promised to say nothing to anybody, he let me go. I went to bed, pretty much puzzled.

  “The next morning, when I went into his cabin, there he was all fresh and rosy and smiling. If I’d had so much as a whiff of booze the night before, I’d have thought I never saw what I did. I went in there thinking I might get a hundred dollars out of the affair, but the minute he spoke I began to smell important money. He said no one must know about his swim the night before. How much did I want? Well, I held my breath and said ten thousand dollars. And I nearly dropped dead when he answered I could have it.”

  Bowker turned to John Quincy. “I don’t know what you’ll think of me. I don’t know what Tim would think. I’m not a crook by nature. But I was fed up and choking over that steward job. I wanted a little newspaper of my own, and up to that minute I couldn’t see myself getting it. And you must remember that I didn’t know then what was in the air—murder. Later, when I did find out, I was scared to breathe. I didn’t know what they could do to me.” He turned to Greene. “That’s all fixed,” he said.

  “I’ve promised you immunity,” the prosecutor answered. “I’ll keep my word. Go on—you agreed to accept the ten thousand?”

  “I did. I went to his office at twelve. One of the conditions was that I could stay on the President Tyler until she got back to San Francisco, and after that I was never to show my face out this way again. It suited me. Mr. Jennison introduced me to this Cabrera, who was to chaperon me the rest of that day. I’ll say he did. When I went aboard the ship, he handed me a thousand dollars in an envelope.

  “When I came back this time, I was to spend the day with Cabrera and get the other nine grand when I sailed. This morning when we tied up I saw the Spaniard on the dock, but by the time I’d landed he had disappeared. I met this Willie Chan and we had a large day. This fusel oil they sell out here loosened my tongue, but I’m not sorry. Of course, the rosy dream has faded, and it’s my flat feet on the deck from now to the end of time. But the shore isn’t so much any more, with all the bar-rooms under cover, and this sea life keeps a man out in the open air. As I say, I’m not sorry I talked. I can look any man in the eye again and tell him to go to—” He glanced at Miss Minerva. “Madam, I will not name the precise locality.”

  Greene stood. “Well, Jennison, there’s my case. I’ve tipped it all off to you, but I wanted you to see for yourself how air-tight it is. There are two courses open to you—you can let this go to trial with a plea of not guilty. A long humiliating ordeal for you. Or you can confess here and now and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. If you’re the sensible man I think you are, that’s what you’ll do.”

  Jennison did not answer, did not even look at the prosecutor. “It was a very neat idea,” Greene went on. “I’ll grant you that. Only one thing puzzles me—did it come as the inspiration of the moment or did you plan it all out in advance? You’ve been over to the mainland rather often of late—were you waiting your chance? Anyhow, it came, didn’t it—it came at last. And for a swimmer like you, child’s play. You didn’t need that ladder when you left the vessel—perhaps you went overboard while the President Tyler was still moving. A quick silent dive, a little way under water in case any one was watching from the deck, and then a long but easy swim ashore. And there you were, on the beach at Waikiki. Not far away Dan Winterslip was asleep on his lanai, with not so much as a locked door between you. Dan Winterslip, who stood between you and what you wanted. A little struggle—a quick thrust of your knife. Come on, Jennison, don’t be a fool. It’s the best way out for you now. A full confession.”

  Jennison leaped to his feet, his eyes flashing. “I’ll see you in hell first!” he cried.

  “Very well—if you feel that way about it—” Greene turned his back upon him and began a low-toned conversation with Hallet. Jennison and Charlie Chan were together on one side of the desk. Chan took out a pencil and accidentally dropped it on the floor. He stooped to pick it up.

  John Quincy saw that the butt of a pistol carried in Chan’s hip pocket protruded from under his coat. He saw Jennison spring forward and snatch the gun. With a cry John Quincy moved nearer, but Greene seized his arm and held him. Charlie Chan seemed unaccountably oblivious to what was going on.

  Jennison put the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead and pulled the trigger. A sharp click—and that was all. The pistol fell from his hand.

  “That’s it!” cried Greene triumphantly. “That’s my confession, and not a word spoken. I’ve witnesses, Jennison—they all saw you—you couldn’t stand the disgrace a man in your position—you tried to kill yourself. With an empty gun.” He went over and patted Chan on the shoulder. “A great idea, Charlie,” he said. “Chan thought of it,” he added to Jennison. “The Oriental mind, Harry. Rather subtle, isn’t it?”

  But Jennison
had dropped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” said Greene gently. “But we’ve got you. Maybe you’ll talk now.”

  Jennison looked up slowly. The defiance was gone from his face; it was lined and old.

  “Maybe I will,” he said hoarsely.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Moonlight at the Crossroads

  They filed out, leaving Jennison with Greene and the stenographer. In the anteroom Chan approached John Quincy.

  “You go home decked in the shining garments of success,” he said. “One thought are tantalizing me. At simultaneous moment you arrive at same conclusion we do. To reach there you must have leaped across considerable cavity.”

  John Quincy laughed. “I’ll say I did. It came to me to-night. First, some one mentioned a golf professional with big wrists who drove a long ball. I had a quick flash of Jennison on the links here, and his terrific drives. Big wrists, they told me, meant that a man was proficient in the water. Then some one else—a young woman—spoke of a champion swimmer who left a ship off Waikiki. That was the first time the idea of such a thing had occurred to me. I was pretty warm then, and I felt Bowker was the man who could verify my suspicion. When I rushed aboard the President Tyler to find him, I saw Jennison about to sail and that confirmed my theory. I went after him.”

  “A brave performance,” commented Chan.

  “But as you can see, Charlie, I didn’t have an iota of real evidence. Just guesswork. You were the one who furnished the proof.”

  “Proof are essential in this business,” Chan replied.

  “I’m tantalized too, Charlie. I remember you in the library. You were on the crack long before I was. How come?”

  Chan grinned. “Seated at our ease in All American Restaurant that first night, you will recall I spoke of Chinese people as sensitive, like camera film. A look, a laugh, a gesture, something go click. Bowker enters and hovering above, says with alcoholic accent, ‘I’m my own mashter, ain’t I?’ In my mind, the click. He is not own master. I follow to dock, behold when Spaniard present envelope. But for days I am fogged. I can only learn Cabrera and Jennison are very close. Clues continue to burst in our countenance. The occasion remains suspensive. At the Library I read of Jennison the fine swimmer. After that, the watch, and triumph.”

  Miss Minerva moved on toward the door. “May I have great honor to accompany you to car?” asked Chan.

  Outside, John Quincy directed the chauffeur to return alone to Waikiki with the limousine. “You’re riding out with me,” he told his aunt. “I want to talk with you.”

  She turned to Charlie Chan. “I congratulate you. You’ve got brains, and they count.”

  He bowed low. “From you that compliment glows rosy red. At this moment of parting, my heart droops. My final wish—the snowy chilling days of winter and the scorching windless days of summer—may they all be the springtime for you.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said softly.

  John Quincy took his hand. “It’s been great fun knowing you, Charlie,” he remarked.

  “You will go again to the mainland,” Chan said. “The angry ocean rolling between us. Still I shall carry the memory of your friendship like a flower in my heart.” John Quincy climbed into the car. “And the parting may not be eternal,” Chan added cheerfully. “The joy of travel may yet be mine. I shall look forward to the day when I may call upon you in your home and shake a healthy hand.”

  John Quincy started the car and slipping away, they left Charlie Chan standing like a great Buddha on the curb.

  “Poor Barbara,” said Miss Minerva presently. “I dread to face her with this news. But then, it’s not altogether news at that. She told me she’d been conscious of something wrong between her and Jennison ever since they landed. She didn’t think he killed her father, but she believed he was involved in it somehow. She is planning to settle with Brade to-morrow and leave the next day, probably for ever. I’ve persuaded her to come to Boston for a long visit. You’ll see her there.”

  John Quincy shook his head. “No, I shan’t. But thanks for reminding me. I must go to the cable office at once.”

  When he emerged from the office and again entered the car, he was smiling happily.

  “In San Francisco,” he explained, “Roger accused me of being a Puritan survival. He ran over a little list of adventures he said had never happened to me. Well, most of them have happened now, and I cabled to tell him so. I also said I’d take that job with him.”

  Miss Minerva frowned. “Think it over carefully,” she warned. “San Francisco isn’t Boston. The cultural standard is, I fancy, much lower. You’ll be lonely there—”

  “Oh, no, I shan’t. Some one will be there with me. At least, I hope she will.”

  “Agatha?”

  “No, not Agatha. The cultural standard was too low for her. She’s broken our engagement.”

  “Barbara, then?”

  “Not Barbara, either.”

  “But I have sometimes thought—”

  “You thought Barbara sent Jennison packing because of me. Jennison thought so too—it’s all clear now. That was why he tried to frighten me into leaving Honolulu, and set his opium running friends on me when I wouldn’t go. But Barbara is not in love with me. We understand now why she broke her engagement.”

  “Neither Agatha nor Barbara,” repeated Miss Minerva. “Then who—”

  “You haven’t met her yet, but that happy privilege will be yours before you sleep. The sweetest girl in the Islands—or in the world. The daughter of Jim Egan, whom you have been heard to refer to as a glorified beach-comber.”

  Again Miss Minerva frowned. “It’s a great risk, John Quincy. She hasn’t our background—”

  “No, and that’s a pleasant change. She’s the niece of your old friend—you knew that?”

  “I did,” answered Miss Minerva softly.

  “Your dear friend of the ’eighties. What was it you said to me? If your chance ever comes—”

  “I hope you will be very happy,” his aunt said. “When you write it to your mother, be sure and mention Captain Cope of the British Admiralty. Poor Grace! That will be all she’ll have to cling to—after the wreck.”

  “What wreck?”

  “The wreck of all her hopes for you.”

  “Nonsense. Mother will understand. She knows I’m a roaming Winterslip, and when we roam, we roam.”

  They found Madame Maynard seated in her living-room with a few of her more elderly guests. From the beach came the sound of youthful revelry.

  “Well my boy,” the old woman cried, “it appears you couldn’t stay away from your policemen friends one single evening, after all. I give you up.”

  John Quincy laughed. “I’m pau now. By the way, Carlota Egan—is she—”

  “They’re all out there somewhere,” the hostess said. “They came in for a bit of supper—by the way, there are sandwiches in the dining-room and—”

  “Not just now,” said John Quincy. “Thank you so much. I’ll see you again, of course—”

  He dashed out on the sand. A group of young people under the hau tree informed him that Carlota Egan was on the farthest float. Alone? Well, no—that naval lieutenant—

  He was, he reflected as he hurried on toward the water, a bit fed up with the navy. That was hardly the attitude he should have taken, considering all the navy had done for him. But it was human. And John Quincy was human at last.

  For an instant he stood at the water’s edge. His bathing suit was in the dressing-room, but he never gave it a thought. He kicked off his shoes, tossed aside his coat, and plunged into the breakers. The blood of the wandering Winterslips was racing through his veins; hot blood that tropical waters had ever been powerless to cool.

  Sure enough, Carlota Egan and Lieutenant Booth were together on the float. John Quincy climbed up beside them.

  “Well, I’m back,” he announced.

  “I’ll tell the world you’re back,” said th
e lieutenant. “And all wet, too.”

  They sat there. Across a thousand miles of warm water the trade winds came to fan their cheeks. Just above the horizon hung the Southern Cross; the Island lights trembled along the shore; the yellow eye on Diamond Head was winking. A gorgeous setting. Only one thing was wrong with it. It seemed rather crowded.

  John Quincy had an inspiration. “Just as I hit the water,” he remarked, “I thought I heard you say something about my dive. Didn’t you like it?”

  “It was rotten,” replied the lieutenant amiably.

  “You offered to show me what was wrong with it, I believe?”

  “Sure. If you want me to.”

  “By all means,” said John Quincy. “Learn one thing every day. That’s my motto.”

  Lieutenant Booth went to the end of the springboard. “In the first place, always keep your ankles close together—like this.”

  “I’ve got you,” answered John Quincy.

  “And hold your arms tight against your ears.”

  “The tighter the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Then double up like a jackknife,” continued the instructor. He doubled up like a jackknife and rose into the air.

  At the same instant John Quincy seized the girl’s hands. “Listen to me. I can’t wait another second. I want to tell you that I love you—”

  “You’re mad,” she cried.

  “Mad about you. Ever since that day on the ferry—”

  “But your people?”

  “What about my people? It’s just you and I—we’ll live in San Francisco—that is, if you love me—”

  “Well, I—”

  “In heaven’s name, be quick. That human submarine is floating around here under us. You love me, don’t you? You’ll marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her. Only the wandering Winterslips could kiss like that. The stay-at-homes had always secretly begrudged them the accomplishment.

  The girl broke away at last, breathless. “Johnnie!” she cried.